This faction will most likely be the first of many that the Player will meet in the Miami Wasteland...

...And these guys aren't your typical gang of roving Outlaws in the Wastes.

They have no fear and have the potential to be your greatest allies, unless you displease them or trade in slaves.
If either of the latter two were the case, one would find that they become the harshest practitioners of wasteland justice...

Even though protecting the weak is not their agenda, they will not tolerate those who come across and steal, harass, or maim the many striving communities of the wastes without proper cause. Their unusual sense of righteousness takes the extreme every single chance whenever someone decides to take more than they need or even outright humiliate, torment, or cause intentional harm to others.

One can say Nuclear Patriots are simply just competing Apex Predators who prefer not to harm smaller tribes and communities. Instead they swoop in and take the spoils once the Raiders, Psychos, and Marauders exhaust themselves after they become weary and worn from attacking their prey.

However, they particularly harbor a great and terrible disdain to the aforementioned Slavers the most.

The Nuclear Patriots see Slavery akin to a religious abomination that they must purge and regularly choose to disrupt even at the risk of their own lives. Thankfully, due to their fanaticism and the gruesome tactics they inflict upon Slavers, surviving or otherwise, most them make the conscious choice of avoiding the Nuclear Patriots, altogether.

Due to their abnormal beliefs, they do not outright just save the slaves who are lucky enough to be freed by their roving parties. Instead, those who are freed are given a caveat of two choices:

1) Join their group, pay back their life debt, then finally earn their place in the Patriots after an
arduous amount of initiation rites, hard manual labor, or bloodshed.
2) Be stranded and left where they stand with only the clothes on their back since all the spoils
belong to the Nuclear Patriots, and them alone.

Their main base of operations is a makeshift fortress out of an abandoned parking lot they had fortified throughout the years. Due to their ferocity and mercilessness in combat, many dare not to attack or raid them unless incredibly bold or extremely stupid.

They have built a community similar to a medieval feudalistic castle township where the parking lot fortress is in the center while a makeshift village surrounds the complex. The village is a ramshackle town built by former slaves who receive protection while they toil in the fields, purify water, gather materials, produce goods, or trade with passing caravans, all the while paying tribute to the Nuclear Patriots. Although this residential area is not as well protected as the parking lot, there are markings and messages all around the outskirts to indicate that this place is under Nuclear Patriot protection.

For many outsiders, such cooperation is strange and incomprehensible, but almost every dweller knows their place and many are thankful for the life that they built there. To quote one such former slave:

You will never understand. They came from up above, like the angels. They brought us mercy...saved us… and that's what they are, the guardian angels of death...

The most respected, influential, skilled, and powerful members of the group are the ones who have their own crew and, most importantly, their own custom made, jury-rigged vehicles built from collected scrap or prizes taken from incursions on high tier Slaver convoys. Usually, these highly sought after trophies are refurbished and stripped of unnecessary gear like slave pens and retrofitted with better armor and engines.

But, it is not all rank and dreariness for them...

Their main form of amusement is their own form of death race, which is vaguely similar to the chariot races of Ancient Rome. Those who compete have the potential to win fantastic prizes, even the chance to take over the leadership of the Patriots themselves.

In this race, everything is allowed: custom cars, custom weapons, custom armor and there is just one rule...

Get to the finish line or be the last one to survive.

Two story house, white picket fence, kids playing with the dog, you’re behind the grill and your beautiful wife is taking with the neighbours at the table. Just a lazy summer afternoon, barbecue, friends, the dream. Then you wake up.

Some never wake up, others just can't accept the reality. But who would? There’s no house, only damp, rat-infested basements, no birds singing, just the cries and hysterical screams of maniacs. That’s all there is, no running away.

They call them "Dreamers". Addicts, users of the wasteland’s most psychoactive chem "Luna". A high like no other, tempts every Wastelander, but only the nescient are willing to try it. At first the "Dreamer" feels tired, groggy and quickly falls asleep. What follows is a dream most beautiful. The problem, your brain continues to experience emotional breakdown after waking up. The first first sign is lethargy, depression from leaving the dream of your life. Dreamers find themselves trapped in a world which is the polar opposite of their imagined heaven. Caught in the wasteland, deceived, unable to change the future or control their destiny. This emotional breakdown is usually followed by migraines, dehydration, hyper-sensitive hearing and various other side effects. The only escape - another dose, another dream, and then the whole thing plays out all over again, deeper, stronger, more painful.

If they're lucky, they'll die in their dreams, some of them can't stand the crash that comes after and commit suicide, others become overly aggressive, like wild animals. They‘ll do anything for another dose, kill, rape, be raped. It’s no surprise then, that you see them working for the Cubans, who produce and distribute “Luna“.

They don’t use guns, their arms are about as steady as their thoughts, they do wear masks though, to hide from whatever’s chasing them. Dreamer’s aren’t scared of dying, as far as they’re concerned, the real world is a nightmare to wake up from. Promise them a dose, they’ll do anything you want. Most days they’re out killing whoever, for whatever they can trade to the Cubans, but they don’t turn down jobs. Sometimes you even see them trying to take on Enclave, but that ends about as well as you’d expect. The Enclave wastes a little ammo to waste a few Dreamers.

A leader is absolutely out of the question, the only thing they listen to is “Luna“, which means do what the Cubans say. Ironically enough, they live in an old hospital. The building is in such bad shape that no one else wants it. Somehow it still hasn’t fallen apart, not that the Dreamers would mind if it did. The ground floor is surrounded by the corpses of those who couldn’t deal with waking up, you can smell it a mile away. If they get hungry and raiding hasn’t been good, they’ll even resort to cannibalism. When they want to go to bed, it’s either in the basement or the parking lot, mattresses all over, like a giant sick ward. When they leave the dream and enter the nightmare they just wander the upper floors, crying, screaming and trying to make their living Hell go away. If they can’t take it anymore, they just fall out of a window, hoping to never wake up again.

The descendants of wealthy elites who fled Cuba during the Chinese-backed communist revolution. Though some chose to return home after the American annexation of Cuba, others who had already established themselves in Miami chose instead to stay and grow their various businesses, becoming shining examples of the great American Dream.

These new American citizens soon established themselves as the premier operators and owners of Miami’s luxury lifestyle, everything from hotels, golf courses and casinos fell under their domain. It didn’t take long for this dominance to transform into a criminal organization whose hands could be found in anything from prostitution, racketeering, and drug trafficking. The group’s illicit operations fuelled Miami’s renowned luxury lifestyle and brought the organization into regular contact with the glittering rich and famous of pre-war American society.

After the bombs fell their influence has been greatly diminished, nevertheless they can still be found amongst the crumbling ruins of Miami’s once magnificent landscape. Indeed it’s hard to fail to notice them with their brightly colored suits and slick haircuts. These ruthless gangsters are now the chief distributors of Miami’s most popular and addictive chems, “Push” and “Luna”. Though they might at first appear amusing in their oddly colored suits, they shouldn’t be underestimated as they would happily slit your throat without a moment’s hesitation, all the while smiling and grooving to their chilled Latin tunes. To them, this kind of brutality would be nothing personal, purely business. They govern their criminal organization under a strict code of conduct, “Famillia. Empresa. Lucro”. Those who choose to join their organization are forced to swear a lifelong oath of allegiance, and any form of disloyalty to this oath is met with swift and brutal punishment. The brutality with which they deal with those who break their oath equally translates to how they conduct business, where their only concern is how you benefit their end profits.

Their central base of operations is a decaying pre-war golf club. Once the shining jewel in Miami’s crown this ruined structure now functions as a fortress from which they stride out into the wastes hoping to regain their dominance over the communities of Miami’s post-war society. The golf course that is positioned behind their clubhouse is so overgrown it’s now more akin to a tropical jungle. Where deadly wasteland creatures stalk the earth looking for those foolish enough to stumble into their realm. This tropical jungle has acted as a buffer between the organization and the roaming bands of slavers that gather beyond in the wastes of Miami. This safeguard has allowed their criminal operations to continue to flourish unhindered by the larger instabilities of post-war Miami society.